Armageddon

“Hey, Colonel!” he yelled. “Been waitin’ all day for you”

“Traffic was tough,” said Dog, winking at Je

“And hello to you,” said the man, bending low to Je

“Billy. Get it?” said Goat, who owned the tiny airfield as well as the services co

“Great-grandfather was a barnstormer,” said Goat, showing them to their plane. “Supposed to have flown under the Brooklyn Bridge upside down”

Goat went over some details of the aircraft quickly with Dog. Je

“You know, I’ve never been in a plane this small,” said Je

“Nothing to it,” said Dog. “All you do is sit and relax.”

The engine’s growl turned into a loud whine, and the plane bolted forward.

“I think—” she started, but before she could finish the sentence the plane lurched upward. Je

“Oh boy,” she said when she finally got her breath back. “Oh boy.”

Off the coast of Brunei

11 October 1997, 0500

The target sat at the lower left-hand corner of the screen. Dazhou Ti stared at the green and black shadows, waiting for the indicator at the center to show they were in range of the missile.

Dazhou had once marveled at the Barracuda’s technology, not simply the propulsion system but the gear that allowed his small crew to run the boat: the global positioning locator, the different screens for passive infrared detection, and the radar receiver, which showed if others were looking for them. The faceted sides of the vessel made it as difficult to see on radar as its low-slung profile and black paint made it hard to spot with the naked eye. The passive detectors and burst radar targeting system allowed them to operate nearly invisibly, minimizing the electronic signals that indicated a conventional warship’s presence as surely as a searchlight on an otherwise darkened deck. But now, barely six weeks since his first trial voyage, Dazhou took it all for granted.

“Captain, we are within range,” said the weapons officer. “Speed stablilizing at eighty knots.”

“Prepare the missiles.”

The weapons officer touched two buttons on his panel. The metal grate below Dazhou’s feet vibrated as the hatchway above the missile launcher separated. Information on the target—a large oil tank at the center of a tank farm near Muara on the northern coast of Brunei—was downloaded into the guidance system of the missile.

“Missile ready,” replied the crewman.

“Fire,” said Dazhou.

There was a snarl on the rear area of the Barracuda as the Exocet took off. The French-made anti-ship missile accelerated upward, approaching the speed of sound. After a few seconds, its nose tilted slightly downward and it began skimming along the waves, making it very difficult to track, let alone intercept. When it came within ten kilometers it would activate its own radar and use it to close in on the tank.

“On course,” reported the weapons officer, tracking the missile’s progress.

“Unknown contact bearing one-zero-eight, at thirty kilometers, making ten knots,” said the radarman. “Appears to be a patrol vessel. Brunei. One of their new Russian craft. Not close enough for positive identification.”

“Does it see us?”

“Negative.”

Dazhou was tempted to destroy the patrol ship, one of two recently purchased by the sultan to equip his paltry navy. But his orders from the general were to avoid engagements if possible. Striking the patrol ship, as tempting as it might be, might prematurely alert the enemy to the existence of his ship.

Turning back now meant there would be no chance of seeing the fire his missile would cause. But vanity was not among Dazhou’s weaknesses. The more difficult decision involved whether to proceed away at high speed or not. Taking the turn at high speed involved a tilt maneuver that made the craft visible by sophisticated radars, including the one aboard the Brunei ship. A slow turn, which for the Barracuda meant roughly twenty knots or a little less, kept the ship’s profile low in the water and almost surely invisible. But dropping the speed to turn would mean he’d lose the flight effect; he would be turning the Barracuda back into a “normal” ship. Not only would he lose his momentum, but he would have to wait until he was a good distance from the Brunei ships to pop up. The “takeoff regime”—the word they used for initiating the effect—could not be made radar efficient. And besides, achieving the thrust necessary taxed the cooling capabilities of the ceramic baffles at the rear; he would be visible on infrared. Dazhou had to decide: remain unseen but go slow, thereby increasing the length of the mission, or go fast and hope the men on the Brunei ship didn’t believe their sensors.

Throughout his career, he had taken the risky path, preferring its quick rewards. But there were no rewards in this case; he wanted to keep the ship secret for as long as possible.

“Rig for full stealth mode,” he told his crew. “Return to base as pla

Brunei

11 October 1997, 0530

Mack Smith groaned as the phone rang, then reached over to the side of the bed and picked up the receiver.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Mack, McKe

“Hold on a second.” Mack pulled himself upright, trying to will himself back to full consciousness. He hadn’t had more than four hours of sleep in weeks. “What exactly is going on?”

“Terrorists attacked a tank farm out near Muara, where petrol is stored before it’s picked up by tankers,” said McKe

“What sort of attack?”

“I don’t have all the details yet. May have been some sort of missile or mortar rounds.”

“Missile? From terrorists? More likely they snuck in there and planted a bomb.”

“Could be. Should we get up in the air or not?”

“We have fuel?”

“We have fuel.”

“All right. Send up a two-plane patrol and have another stand by. You lead the first flight; report in when you know the situation. Get the Megafortress ready.”

“Done and done,” said McKe

“I may marry you yet, McKe

For the first time since they’d met, she didn’t have a snappy comeback. “Coffee’ll be waiting at the hangar,” she said.

AS HE GOT DRESSED, MACK DECIDED HE WOULD TAKE Brea

So he decided he’d take the plane up himself.

While Mack respected the capabilities of the EB-52, he’d never been particularly enamored with the plane. Early on during his stay at Dreamland, he had gone through the familiarization courses and did well enough to have been offered a pilot’s slot in the program. But for all the sleek modifications and sophisticated upgrades, the big jet was still a big jet, a lumbering bomb truck, a B-52. Mack Smith flew pointy-nose go-fast jets, not big ugly fat fellas.

But you did what you had to do. By the time he got to the airport, the ground crew was fueling the plane. Mack stopped at the tower where his ground operations center was coordinating mission information and getting updates from the other services. McKe